


Some Things Stick Until You Lose Your Mind or Wind Up Dead

by vulcanarmr



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abusive John Winchester, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Canon Compliant, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Dean Winchester Needs a Hug, Dean Winchester Whump, Depressed Dean Winchester, Episode: s09e13 The Purge, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt No Comfort, Just angst, Post-Episode: s09e13 The Purge, Season/Series 09, Trauma, Traumatized Dean Winchester, author is going through it, i was rewatching 9x13 at 1 am and came up with this okay, idek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:28:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27350464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vulcanarmr/pseuds/vulcanarmr
Summary: "You think I want to end up in a hotel bathtub with my kidney carved out? In Chechnya?"
Comments: 4
Kudos: 101





	Some Things Stick Until You Lose Your Mind or Wind Up Dead

**Author's Note:**

> i am aware that i have a fic i should be updating and other projects i should be working on but i decided to write some dean angst instead <3
> 
> warnings for some abuse and rape/non con, none of it descriptive tho. stay safe everybody!!

_“These aren’t supplements. They’re roofies.”_

_“What? How do you know what roofies look like?”_

_How do you know what roofies look like?_

_How do you know what roofies look like?_

_How do you know…?_

The conversation is hours old, still fresh and vivid in Dean’s mind as he drinks another glass of whiskey and stares at the several empty beer bottles sitting near him. It’s weird that it’s something he remembers. He was still half-drugged when he and Sam talked about it, and he should probably be thinking about other things. Like that Kevin’s dead, or that Crowley’s missing, or that he doesn’t exactly know what Cas is doing right now, or that the angels have fallen, or that his own brother doesn’t fucking trust him. There’s a million other things he could be worrying about, but his drunk, half-assed train of thought keeps bringing him back to those words. Sure, he’s worried about all the rest, it all makes him feel even more like shit. But that damn earworm of a conversation is the strongest thing in his brain right now. And boy oh boy, does it rip open old wounds.

He’s eighteen.

There’s a bar across the street from the motel. Barely two minutes away from their room. It’s called Johnny’s or Danny’s or something like that. The red from the neon sign shines faintly through the motel window and onto the floor in the dark as Dean lies in bed, rest feeling like a distant memory. His dad’s gone. On some hunt that he decided Dean and Sam should stay behind on. But Dean wishes he were on that hunt. Because he feels like shit, for no particular reason, probably, and he needs a distraction. Which usually means hunting or practicing shooting. Or, well, drinking. He may only be eighteen, but already drinks half his problems away sometimes. He doesn’t know what else to do.

He sits up in bed, looking over to where his brother is lying on his own bed. He shouldn’t leave him. It’s stupid. But Dean needs to be alone for a moment. And it’s not far. He’ll be there and back again in a flash. He’s done it a few times before, and he’s been fine. Sam never tells their dad, so he never has to know. Everything’s fine. Dean moves over to Sam, gently shaking him awake. Sam starts, but Dean shushes him and smiles slightly. “I’ll be back soon,” he says as he pulls on a jacket. “Stay here, I’ll be right back.”

He’s not.

He’s at the bar, whatever it’s called, sipping away at his second bottle and watching the other people in there. He tells himself he’ll go home after this one. He tells himself that as he finishes the bottle, as he pays the bartender in coins that he’s managed to scrape up and put aside by hustling pool in other bars in other towns. He tells himself that until a man who looks a couple years older than him sits next to him. There’s a bulge in his pocket that looks about the size of a small bottle. Dean doesn’t find that important until later. All he notices now is that the man smiles. He smiles back.

The rest is fucking history.

“Let me buy you a drink.”

“I don’t know, I gotta get home.”

“Just one, then I’ll let you go”

“Okay. Sure, just one.”

“Usually, I sit at that table over there.” Point. “But it’s taken now, so here I am.”

That’s when Dean assumes he slipped something into his drink. Probably whatever was in his pocket. He never forgets the size of the lump there, or the way his drink looked just a bit cloudier. None of it seems important at first, but it all makes sense later.

He’s almost passed out some time after. And then he’s in the back of a car that he doesn’t recognize, and there’s noises and movement and hands and feelings and pain, and he keeps saying stop, stop, stop, stop, and ow, ow, _ow, ow-_

He wakes up to see the bartender staring at him, speaking words he doesn’t hear. He’s leaning against the outside of the bar. Everything hurts. He doesn’t speak. He just scrambles to his feet and moves as quickly as he can back towards the motel. A couple cars almost hit him, and he wouldn’t really care if they did. He gets to the room, fumbling with the key, pushing the door open, and then he sighs once he’s inside. He collapses. He’s okay now. He barely remembers what happened. He doesn’t have the time or ability to process it right now. All he feels is relief.

And then John.

He’s just standing there when Dean looks up. His face is unreadable at the moment, but later Dean knows he looks angry. He grabs his arm, pulls him to his feet. Only to hit him hard enough that he hits the door and falls back down again.

“We’re leaving,” his dad then says. “Pack your things.”

Dean does, without a word. There’s no point in speaking when his own stupidity got him here. He notices the jacket he was wearing is missing as he’s packing, but he doesn’t mention it. Ever. He pretends it got left behind. He pretends it’s not a big deal. He pretends the missing jacket’s not in the back of some stranger’s car, along with half his dignity. It’s bad enough that he got caught leaving Sam. He doesn’t need anyone to know that he was dumb enough to get drugged and used because of that.

He won’t let it happen again.

He learns not to accept drinks from anyone he doesn’t know. He learns not to look away from his drink for too long. He learns to pay attention to who’s around him and what’s happening. He learns to tell if the drink is too cloudy.

He learns what roofies look like.

And when Sam asks him in the kitchen that day how he knows, he comes up with an excuse that covers up the truth but also tells his brother that he should be careful. So he can protect Sam, but not let him know what happened. So no one knows how stupid he was that night.

No one but him.

And still, no one but him knows.

And no one but him ever will.

**Author's Note:**

> this is so short and i wrote instead of doing my homework at like 1 in the morning, but i hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> have a lovely day/night <3


End file.
